


Undercover and under the covers

by snarknoir19



Category: Black Panther (2018), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Wynonna Earp (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-27
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-10-29 06:07:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20791877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snarknoir19/pseuds/snarknoir19
Summary: Setting the stage for their undercover mission, Natasha and T’Challa drive to the coast. (Or: Characters have favorite characters too).





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> With all apologies to actual writers, this idea popped up and had to be tried. Additional chapters are poised...

Waves rolled up to crash on the beach at the base of a low hill. A twisty path lead up to a small cottage that looked out over the harbor. 

Inside, T’Challa stretched out in his antique leather chair. Enjoyed the way each contour conformed perfectly to his frame. They’d purchased it at a local antique mall while developing their character’s cover story: Newly weds (Trey and Dru) furnishing their new vacation home. The part time lodging gave them plausible reason to be away for extended periods of time without arousing undue suspicion. 

In any case, T’Challa was presently quite content. Cup of coffee in one hand. Book in the other. Morning sunlight poured in through the window at his elbow and gilded the room in what appeared to be the beginnings of a beautiful seaside day. A great morning for quiet reading. In a couple days ‘Trey and Dru’ would begin surveillance operations in an adjacent town. Today, however, was for relaxation. 

Outside his window seabirds soared the wind gusts above the breaking waves. 

The sudden burst of giggling coming from the front of the house broke his focus. T’Challa marked his place, closed his book, and waited to see what had brought forth such an uncharacteristic sound from his teammate so early in the morning. The giggle broke into outright laughter. 

Outside the snug cottage a fresh series of waves crashed on the rocky shoreline. T’Challa was struck by the notion that this situation, this moment in time felt perfect. He pondered the implications of the idea until his keen hearing picked up the sound of bare feet padding the hardwood flooring in the hallway. 

Natasha stepped into the room, fresh from the shower, bare legged, and draped in an oversized shirt. She leaned against the doorframe and smiled at the sight of her partner so evidently comfortable in the chair. She paused and seemed to quietly regard him for a moment and then: “Your father is a comedian.” Held out a package. 

T’Challa started to reply and froze, when he recognized the shirt she was wearing: his pale blue oxford that he’d worn yesterday and couldn’t find in the morning. He remembered that she’d commented on the linen fabric during their drive. Her touch on his sleeve had lingered.  
It now hung loosely on her much smaller frame. He found that he liked the look. Liked it very much. 

Natasha pointedly ignored his raised eyebrow and held a package in front of her. Smirking she reached in and withdrew a dull yellow shirt emblazoned with the logo from the Star Trek franchise. 

T’challa laughed. Recognizing his father’s handiwork. Natasha pivoted neatly and padded off toward the back of the house. “You’re helping me to retaliate.” Her voice trailed behind her. 

Obviously she’d given his father the address to this safe house. The Black Widow and his father had struck up a friendship, bonded over sci-fi, and maintained a private ‘feud’ over which was the superior franchise. Clearly there would be a search for Star Wars merchandise today. 

“I want to go into town in a bit. See those shops we drove past.” Natasha had reappeared carrying her shoes. 

She stood in the doorway. Expectantly. 

T’Challa glanced at his book. Sighed dramatically. “By ‘bit’ I suppose you mean ‘right this minute’, then.” 

Natasha smiled. Expectantly.

T’Challa briefly wondered what she wore beneath his shirt. 

Didn’t ask because, well; Natasha. 

“You won’t flash anybody? again?” He asked, setting his book aside. There had been an ‘incident’ the night before. Natasha had been in the shower. T’Challa had gone outside and stood on the moonlit beach, listening to the waves. Sometime later he’d re entered the cottage to find Natasha raiding the refrigerator. She turned toward him, robe casually open. He’d been frozen by her nudity, an arm’s distance between them and she hadn’t moved to gather the garment closed in the near darkness. With a laugh and holding her prize: his pint of Ben & Jerry’s, she had stepped in, risen up on her tiptoes, pressed a chaste kiss to his jawline, whirled away to her bedroom. Whispered goodnight.

It was only later she’d remembered that the black Panther was gifted with extraordinary senses and could likely have seen her quite plainly in the darkness. She’d opologized for any embarrassment the next morning, albeit with a smug smile, and left to go running. 

Bare knees brushed his thigh. Brought him back to the present. She’d moved close and he could smell her shampoo, and her own scent. T’Challa schooled himself. This was his teammate. The Black Widow. It wouldn’t do to let his thoughts run in that direction. 

Natasha reached and relieved him of his coffee. Took a sip and appeared to consider the ‘flashing’ question before answering: “Hard to say.” 

T’Challa sighed at this but rose to his feet. Natasha remained in his space. “And if I did happen to flash somebody?” She mused, elegant fingers toyed with the buttons of the shirt. His shirt. “Natasha..” His voice was low. A rumble. 

“I make no promises. ” She replied, airily, executed a pirouette, and padded out into the hall. 

She grabbed a scarf from a chair in the entryway. Called out “shotgun!” And was out the door. 

T’Challa looked down at his comfortable chair once more before sighing and following her. Who knew what the day, or his partner, might reveal. 

‘T’Challa climbed behind the wheel of their 1967 pale green Volkswagen campervan and saw that Natasha was in the back looking through one of her gear bags. She returned to her seat, apparently satisfied.

The ride into town was a breezy affair with the windows down and the radio on as they followed the narrow, twisty road that hugged the shoreline. Natasha pointed out spots along the way that she wanted to explore at a later time and T’Challa marveled at the lightness and excitement in her manner. 

The first shop they came to was small, and overfilled with books. They were stacked in random piles on the floor and on the narrow irregular stairwell that led up to a small, questionable loft. The proprietor welcomed them and never stopped talking until they left the store. Natasha wore a polite smile throughout. She referred to the woman as “the ordeal” thereafter.

They drove a short distance and parked near a pier which was lined with small shops and food stands. 

It marked the beginning of the town’s raised wooden boardwalk. Natasha jumped from the car almost before he’d fully parked. He smiled at her enthusiasm and noted that she waited for him on the walk. The damn shirt continued to look as though it, alone, covered the ex spy’s body. Not exactly low profile he mused.

At the next stop they wandered apart: she, to look at pottery and he, out a side door that opened to a courtyard with metal and stone sculptures. An aproned woman with her long brunette hair in a braid looked over from where she’d been maneuvering a large vase into position and greeted him with a cheerful hello. T’Challa nodded and smiled. The woman approached him drying her hands on her apron and he noted that she wore a T-shirt with a college logo. An art student he guessed. The young woman smiled and extended her hand. T’Challa was surprised at her firm grip. 

“You are the artist?” He asked, inclining his head toward the nearest sculpture. She hadn’t stopped smiling. “Some of these are mine,” she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and gestured toward several pieces. “I mostly work in clay.” T’Challa stepped up to one of the smaller works; a balance of stone, wood, and wire. “It’s ok to touch.” She offered, again playing with her hair. “Come see this.” T’Challa felt her hand on his forearm drawing him toward a low table where she’d been working when he’d first noticed her. It was a vase in multiple washes of blues. “It is lovely.” He noted. The woman remained close. “Oh! I’m Elizabeth. Libby.” T’Challa smiled and gave the name of his undercover character, Trey. She repeated it, canting her head and appraising him. “I had you for something longer, Is Trey short for something?” T’Challa sensed a shift in tone and began to wonder what had become of Natasha. “It is difficult to pronounce.” He offered her a warm smile and gestured toward the exit. “I’m afraid I must be going. It was a pleasure to meet you, Libby.” The young woman looked disappointed but smiled and touched his arm. “Come back sometime soon.” T’Challa found Natasha had drifted on to the next shop. 

Natasha looked up at his approach and T’Challa found himself staring directly into the eyes of the Black Widow. The effect was chilling. The lightness was still there from before but now with an edge of danger. “Will miss clay fingers be joining us?” She lifted an item from a display case. T’Challa noted how her hands caressed the handle of an old, scrimshaw letter opener. Twirled it through her fingers in a silver and white blur before returning it to its place amidst the other baubles. Another customer standing close by overheard the exchange, glanced up at T’Challa, and offered a sympathetic expression. T’Challa’s eyebrow lifted. “Na...” he started.  
“Drucilla” she spoke, cutting him off. “Let’s go.” And abruptly walked out. 

His teammate apparently found the sculptor objectionable then. He wondered about the curious disdain she had for certain artisans. He figured he would save his questions for later. 

Stepping out into the sunlight they were assailed with the aroma of various foods being prepared at several shops and carts. T’Challa watched her curiously as her focus shifted like a laser to one food cart.

There were other couples gathered near the two or three food shops, some were sitting on the provided benches. After settling on what looked like fish tacos Natasha led them to a more private bench that was angled so that they could people. T’Challa saw a young couple walking hand in hand on the beach. Another couple stood closer to them, arms around each other. T’Challa noted that Natasha’s attention seemed to linger there. When the woman’s hand drifted lower and caressed the man’s behind, Natasha stopped chewing and stared fixedly.  
T’Challa noticed that Natasha was absently toying with her necklace and something about it drew his attention. 

He looked at the object with which she was playing. “A garrotte, seriously?“

They had discussed weapons and tactics previously. She had asserted that she had been the Black Widow for far too long to comfortably walk around entirely weaponless. And so, while she had decided to retire (mostly) the tools that were more suited to an assassin than an avenger, she retained a certain fondness for this ‘necklace’ - elegant in its simplicity. Beautiful worn, deadly applied. 

She refocused on her teammate. “Perhaps a ‘gift’ for Clay Fingers.” 

T’Challa looked at her pointedly.

She smirked. Avoided his eye contact and looked out toward the surf. There was a weightiness in the silence after they’d eaten and T’Challa felt a charge in the air. 

When Natasha spoke again it was softer, quieter. “I was thinking we should tighten up our cover a little.”

“Tighten up?”

“Maybe ‘Trey’ should put his arm around ‘Dru’ in public.” She said this quietly. She fidgeted, plucked at the necklace, opened and closed her mouth and then studied the nearby couple: “maybe put his hand on her ass, like he felt..possessive,.. sometimes.” T’Challa caught the tension in her hands. A tightness around her mouth. Decided not to tease. He realized he was witness to a rare thing: the great Black Widow felt insecure, awkward. 

There were was something fragile in that moment. An important subtext. Whatever lay beneath the surface of these waves would stay there. Natasha was approaching, but indirectly. 

“I think ‘Trey’ could manage that.” He breathed quietly.

Natasha appeared to relax almost imperceptibly, a softening of the shoulders. 

Something passed then and the tension from before abated. Natasha stretched the tendons in her neck. 

“So, did Clay Fingers sell you any Girl Scout cookies?“ - A soft hint of a smile.

“I rather think she was offering them freely.” - The smile broadened. 

He continued: “Out of the goodness of her heart.” - An eye roll.

“Her ‘heart’ you think?” She snarked. Raked her fingers through her hair exposing the slope of her neck. Where he found himself staring.

T’Challa decided he would shift the topic to something lighter: “Up for a beach stroll, more food, or something else?”

“They rent bicycles in town.” She observed. 

“Bicycles.”

“Unless royalty doesn’t do bicycles..”

“We have servants ride them for us.”

Natasha looked at him then. “And cookies? Does royalty do cookies?” 

T’challa....  
..........

The screen was blank. F-ing blank. WTF! What the actual fuck? Wynonna scrolled down the page further hoping to find more. No! This can’t be the end of it. He can’t be done! Wynonna set down the laptop on her nightstand, bit her lip, made up her mind and whispered: “Dolls!” She poked him. Tapped his chest and continued whispering tersely to ‘wake up’ until Dolls was roused. He took in his surroundings foggily. Saw his partner tucked up against the headboard, clearly wide awake.  
“Ok, so..it’s like this. I don’t want you to be angry but I read your fanfiction.” No response. Quiet breathing. “I know I was intruding but I just had to see it. Now I’ve read it I have to know what will happen next...” came out in a whispered rush. “...i’m sorry?” 

Dolls registered that his impossible ‘partner’ (he had no idea what they were to each other) had woken him from a sound sleep to talk about his fanfiction.  
“Earp.” He rumbled. Closed his eyes and pulled the covers higher. 

“And Now I have thoughts that are just swirling around my head!” She was speaking faster and gesturing helpfully. “And I’m wondering if you’re maybe trying to say things in your story, maybe feeling things, and maybe the story is really a little bit about you and me...” she stopped. Dolls was certain he could hear her brain whirring away.

“Are you mad? You’re probably mad.” She slid down until they were at eye level.  
“And Natasha’s laser focus on food? That’s totally me. You’ve literally said that.” “And wait!..The van! We talked about....”

“Earp..”

“But now that you’re up..”

“Not up.”

“..and we’re talking about it, there are a couple issues..”

Dolls scowled. 

“It’s just that your story is like: awkward, I mean, I’m digging it because you picked the best characters, but.. It’s just kinda...slow.” 

“And just who is ‘libby’ ? She poked him. 

Wynonna realized Dolls was staring back at her. With a dramatic sigh he relented:

“Let me sleep and I’ll show you more in the morning.”

“Technically it is morning..”

“Earp”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Wynonna ‘ships them hard.

“Oh. Good. You found my pad Thai. That I put in the bag marked ‘Dolls’. For my lunch.”

Wynonna smiled back at him with noodles trailing from her mouth. 

She nudged the laptop, waggled her eyebrows, and kept eating. 

Dolls peered over her shoulder. 

“‘Natasha took the whiskey bottle and..’ Earp. Seriously.”

“You need to sex it up.”

“That....I cannot write that. That’s an entirely different rating.”

“Maybe you’re a wuss.”

“Because I won’t ‘ship her with a whiskey bottle, I’m a wuss.”

“Well, that too.”

Dolls’ phone buzzed with a call from Nicole. “Would you please delete that.” 

................

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are appreciated. Happy to consider suggestions.


End file.
